


Water under the bridge

by TheCursedChild



Series: Bridges [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Control, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, Loss of Control, M/M, Need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCursedChild/pseuds/TheCursedChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Miles comes back from Baltimore after a bloodbath, it is Bass who calms him down and keeps him safe and healthy to the best of his abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water under the bridge

He gets the report from a runner long before Miles returns home with the part of the battalion that hasn’t been left to clean up after the Baltimore Campaign.

Bass waits in the suite the two men share. He has a bottle of the best Post-Blackout alcohol and tumblers ready for the celebration when the boy is let in by his guards.

He knows this kid, one of Miles’ favorites. Another orphan who was picked of the street and grasped every possible chance he got to shine. This campaign was his first, and though the reports have only held glowing praise for the way the situation was handled, this kid’s face tells a whole different story.

“What is it?” Bass asks, trying his hardest not to snarl and keep the nerves out of his voice. He fails spectacularly if the boy’s flinch and step back is anything to go by.

“The general has entered the city, Mister President. And I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you this, but he doesn’t look well.” The boy doesn’t meet his eyes, but he obviously has more to say, a confidence that he doesn’t want to break, a scene he witnessed he is not supposed to share.

“Is he hurt?” It would be just like Miles to ride back home while bleeding to death. The fear of losing Miles creeps up his spine, and the boy seems to read him far too well, because he hurries to answer.

“No, sir. He is physically unharmed.” The boy knows he’s been too specific, trying to make himself smaller to avoid the gaze of General Monroe. “And mentally?” Bass grinds out through his teeth, fists clenching.

“We were outnumbered five to one. By the time the scouts found out, it was too late to turn back. The battalion was going to be wiped out, and we feared the Republic would not survive the loss.”

Bass only just realizes how young the kid is. He tries to calm himself, attempts to be reasonable and patient. “Miles’ report said you won with minimal casualties.” He really should know better than to trust the accuracy of his friend’s summaries.

“The General created a funnel out of the main street. It was a death trap, sir. Once you got in, you didn’t get out. He stood at the entrance, facing one man at the time. He killed so many of them before they broke the barrier. By then the odds were almost even, and we were of superior skill. But I fear he has not been himself since. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept.”

Bass sighs. “Dismissed,” he tells the boy, who promptly shuts up and flees the suite. He doesn’t need to know the details to know what Miles will be like when he comes home. They’ve been through this before, danced this dance.

Bass puts the tumblers and the flask of amber liquid away. He knows from experience that tonight will have no place for the pleasant haze of alcohol.

Bass hears the double door to the generals’ suite open and turns around in the knowledge that Miles has finally returned home. The sound of the man’s footfalls place him in the middle of the room.

He sighs, he just wants a hug, welcome Miles home. But again, he has to be what Miles wants, has to be the only one Miles can go to, or Bass will lose him.

Though he knows exactly what to expect as he turns around, it still pains his heart to see his best friend like this. Miles has lost at least five pounds, the skin beneath his eyes is purple and sunken. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his breathing is more fitting for someone who has just run a marathon.

Bass takes control.

He circles Miles like a predator stalking prey. His friend looks haunted by his own actions, his shoulders slumped in shame, arms at his side. Monroe thinks of how they used to be, how Miles used to be strong and sure of himself, where Bass could not aim his rifle at an enemy and shoot. The Blackout has reversed their roles.

Bass stands behind his friend, places a hand on Miles’ shoulder, thumb pressing against the blade. He forces the shoulder back, straightening the other’s posture with gentle pressure. The body beneath his fingers is pliant, waiting to be shaped, corrected, even controlled by the man he trusts most in the world.

The blond nudges an elbow so his best friend’s hands find each other and put him in military stance. A toe to the inside of Miles’ boot spreads his legs just a little bit further to shoulder-width.

Bass moves to face Miles, leaving one hand resting on his lower back as reassurance. He raises Miles’ head up by placing his free fingers under his occasional lover’s chin and stares.

He can see the haze starting, the man’s eyes growing steadily more unfocused. He waits, patiently, and finds the exact moment he was looking for.

“Drop,” he commands, stepping back, and closes his eyes momentarily in satisfaction as Miles obeys. Knees hit the floor with barely a sound.

“You’ve never gone down this quickly,” Bass remarks quietly, more to himself than to Miles, who doesn’t comment anyway. He cards a hand through brown strands of hair, lighter from hours upon hours in the midday sun.

Miles leans into the touch, his own hands still interlocked behind his back. His own pleasure is far from his mind though, it is Bass he wishes to please, Bass he wants to thank for being there for him like this and in every other way.

The general leans forward, nose trailing over the cotton fabric of Bass’ uniform, nuzzling his cock. The president’s breath hitches at the sensation, and he lowers himself to a seating position on the bed behind him. Miles barely seems to notice the action, continuing his administrations undisturbed.

Bass keeps carding a hand through the locks, his other supporting his own frame. It is only when he caresses his thumb along the line of Miles’ pulse point that he notices something is wrong.

The heartbeat beneath his touch is far higher than it should be with Miles this far gone. He should be calm and relaxed, his heartrate low. The high and erratic thumps he feels are concerning, and he realizes that Miles is probably still completely panicking, having retreated into the part of his mind where he stored all of his feelings as he kept control of himself until he could get to Bass.

The president shakes his head at their combined obliviousness and stupidity. He bends forward, hands cupping Miles’ bony ass, and hoists his friend up onto his lap. The noticeable lack of weight makes him pause and add a big multi-course meal as soon as they wake up to his mental to-do list.

Once he is sure they are both comfortable, he kisses his friend as gently as he can manage, hand sneaking back up so he can keep an eye on the other’s heartrate.

He draws back, trying to coax Miles away from the danger and to himself. “Hey Miles,” he whispers, searching but not finding. His only priority is to get Miles out of whatever zone he put himself in. Bass should’ve been more careful, should’ve made sure Miles was calm and in the right frame of mind before anything else.

Bass tries to make up for it, gently coaxing, softly touching, feather-light caresses the little amount of skin available with both their uniforms still on. The progress is too slow, Miles too needy, trying to put more force behind every kiss, pressing roughly into every touch, asking for bruises and fingernail imprints in his skin. He doesn’t get what he wants.

With agility that he really is getting too old for, Bass lifts Miles off his lap and onto the bed, straddling his friends hips, taking his wrists and pinning them above his head, a look enough to command Miles to keep them there.

Bass reaches to the side, opening the drawer and closing his fingers around strips of silk. He can feel Miles watching him, eyes focused on his every action.  “The cuffs, please?” are the first words he hears from Miles’ mouth in weeks. He shakes his head in denial of the request right away.

While he ties the silk around scarred wrists, he shifts his full focus to the knots as he binds both arms to the bed posts. Bass has never found much pleasure in doing this with and to Miles. When they’re equal, sharing pleasure instead of only taking and giving, it is perfect. Nobody has ever come close to knowing him and his body like Miles.

But when Miles is locked up in his own mind with panic and guilt and shame, he doesn’t just want to let go, he wants to be controlled. That, Bass has no problem with. As a man who has not let his control slip in a decade and never will again lest his last loved one dies, he doesn’t even mind exercising that control over someone else.

What he does mind, is that Miles wants to be punished for his imagined crimes, he wants to feel the pain he has inflicted on others, and asks Bass again and again to grand him that desire. Bass, however, cannot. So instead of the chafing metal and iron cuffs, he uses silk. Where Miles wants fast and rough, bruises and teeth and scratches, Bass is gentle and soft and patient and goes painfully slow.

Wrists secure, Bass leans forward, hand resting on Miles’ slowing heart, and presses his lips against skin. The mistake he makes is not shutting Miles up while he is at it. The pleading tone next to his ear almost convinces him to acquiesce any request Miles might make.

“Bass,” he groans softly, baring his neck to the president’s administrations, “I want you to fuck me, please.” Their eyes meet, and Miles looks so earnest, like he won’t survive if he does not get what he asks for. “I don’t need the prep, just you in me, need you,” Miles reaches up for a kiss, a payment of sorts, but Bass dodges and draws back. Miles fights the restraints for the first time, but they are relentless and secure.

When they just started this, not long after Shelley died and the Monroe Republic was growing from nothing to an empire, Bass had tried to give Miles what he thought he needed. It was not long before Bass discovered that in this situation, Miles needs Bass to set the limits and stick to them, because otherwise they will go way too far and harm their own physical and mental health in the progress. Seeing as neither have much of either, they can’t risk it.

“Not today, Miles,” he whispers, moving back for a kiss on his terms, no hidden agenda.   


End file.
